


To Begin With

by DarlaBlack



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 05:11:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15744969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlaBlack/pseuds/DarlaBlack
Summary: Response to the request for a “soft and sexy fic about Mulder and Scully’s first time where they’re really nervous and overwhelmed and completely adorable in their awkwardness but absolutely determined to finally consummate their relationship after 5-7 years.”





	To Begin With

He bites at his thumbnail as he watches her from across the room. She’s rolling her neck. He hears a small pop, can almost feel the relief from here, wants to stretch his own neck in sympathy. It’s 4:47 and they’ve been here since eight. He is still working up the courage.

When she heaves a sigh and caps her pen, he knows he’s running out of time. She’ll start putting things away, then she’ll pull her jacket from the back of her chair and slip it on, tell him good night, and go home. He’ll play it cool like he’s still working on something important and didn’t notice she was on her way out, wave goodnight, then smack his head on the desk in shame and frustration at having to try all over again tomorrow. His palms are sweating already.

“Mulder.”

She’s looking at him, tiny crease of a frown between her eyes, that little dimple on her chin. He fumbles, drops his pencil to the floor and looks up.

“You okay? It’s almost five.”

He clears his throat, looks over at the clock, like he didn’t already know. “Yeah. Uh, yeah, you getting ready to go?”

She’s licking her lips, looking around his desk, and he feels like he’s under a microscope. Her jacket hangs folded over her crossed arms. She seems to be waiting for something, and he’s pretty sure it’s him. “Are you going to work late tonight?” she asks. His heart pumps a little faster. It’s like she knows, like she wants him to ask her.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, I’m just about ready.” He takes a brief moment to steel himself, clears his throat again, then goes for it. “You, ah… you want any company? Want to grab some takeout?”

She fidgets for a moment, bites her cheek to try to hold in the smile that’s climbing onto her lips. “Yeah, okay.”

His heart beats all the way into his fingertips, into his toes, his whole body alight with promise as he grabs his jacket and follows her to the door. He hesitates a moment, then lets his hand come to her back. He’s sure, almost entirely sure, that she slows just the smallest bit, so she can lean into his touch, and he thinks,  _I am going to make love to this woman tonight_.

—

These small intimacies await them at her apartment: fingers brushing not-quite accidentally as they reach for the pizza box, warm knees touching on her couch as they eat, the soft sweater and jeans she changes into just minutes after they step through the door (“Sorry, I can’t wear this suit anymore”). He doesn’t even bring a folder to pretend this could be work related. He watches her profile, watches her lips, remembers the feel of them on his from that very brave night when he kissed her up against the chainlink: behind the catcher’s box, under the stars. He imagines their taste now—of pizza sauce and diet root beer. His palms are sweating again; the knee not touching hers is bouncing. He itches with want but can’t quite make himself act. What if he fucks it all up? What if they see each other differently after?

Scully fares no better, picking at the hem of her sweater as she contemplates throwing herself on top of him, grabbing his hair in her fists and yanking his mouth to hers, if only to get this awkwardness out of the way. She thinks he might not mind. She hopes, anyway. She’s had a persistent ache between her legs for five whole days since that kiss in the park. She squirms just thinking about it—that bottom lip of his finally between her teeth, his fingers in her hair while the other hand bravely dipped to the top of her ass. Oh yes, she’s been ready. She’s more than ready now—and yet he waits.

When she can’t take it anymore, she decides to start small. She’ll kiss him on the cheek and tell him  _thank you for the pizza_. But just as she leans in, he turns his head to speak and his nose bumps her chin.

“Scully, I—” he starts to say as he turns, and then, “Oh!”

“Sorry!” she says, mortified. She turns away. “Sorry.” Her cheeks are on fire, and if she could climb between the couch cushions and disappear, she would.  _Fucking fuck_ , she thinks.

But then he touches her shoulder and turns her to him and says, “Hey,” and suddenly the air in the room is so thick it’s become hard to breathe. His thumb is making little circles near her collarbone that send warmth in rippling spirals out across her skin. She shifts so their knees touch again, lets her socked foot press against his ankle. “I, um. I was gonna say…” he swallows. “Thank you. For having me over.” He’s eyeing her lips now, and his other hand comes to cup her cheek. She wants him so badly she can’t stand it.

He moves, then, leaning in to kiss her, and in their first fumbling efforts, they are so eager that they bump noses twice. She laughs until she gasps when his hand slips under her sweater, his fingers just a little rough, but so warm. She tugs at his buttons and pops one off by accident, swearing and blushing and apologizing. “It’s fine,” he says into her mouth, his tongue so soft. It tickles her lower lip. She finds herself arching toward him, lifting her leg to curve over his knee. His hand under her shirt slides around to the front, stroking gently over her nipple that contracts and stiffens against the pad of his thumb. His other comes to the back clasp of her bra, but it has been a very long time and the hook-and-eye eludes him. Sensing his distress, she makes quick work of it, then shrugs to loosen the straps. His hand returns, fingers to pebbled flesh at last.

She moans and kisses him harder, tongues slipping soft and delicious against one another while she fingers the evening stubble of his jaw. She tugs at his shirt, impatient and hungry for the feel of his skin on hers. But the sleeves catch on his wrists when she pulls too hard and he struggles awkwardly for a moment. She bites her lip. “Here, let me—” but he waves her away, embarrassed, and then finally yanks off both dress shirt and tee.

“Scully,” he says, when he faces her shirtless, breathing a little heavily from the effort. Her underwire pokes inelegantly from under her sweater. Their eyes meet across the strange junction of arousal and embarrassment, desire and clumsiness. “I thought I’d be a little… better at this.”

Her chin dips in frustration and sympathy. “Me too,” she says. And when she lifts her eyes to his again, the ridiculousness of the situation breaks over them both like a wave, and they laugh. Her head falls to his chest. She grips his arms, her shoulders shaking with the farce of it. His arms come around her, hold her, and he chuckles into the top of her head. She nuzzles her nose in the sparse hair of his chest: springy and just the slightest bit damp. She inhales, lets her lips brush the downy skin, and she is suddenly no longer laughing. She kisses. She tastes. She feels the rumble of his moan under her lips.

“Mulder,” she murmurs.

“Hmm,” he says. He’s scrunched up the back of her sweater and is circling his fingers against her alabaster skin.

She lifts her head, and their eyes are deadly serious now, just inches apart. “I want you so badly,” she says. He feels her breath against his chin, against his lips. “I want this.”

Fingers in her hair, palms on her cheeks. He shakes his head, kisses her mouth. “Scully, you’ve no idea.” Another kiss, and he’s lifting her shirt now, up over her head. Her bra tumbles off her chest to the floor. She’s bared before him, breathing heavy, nipples tightening under his gaze and the cool air. He’s been hard since the moment she stepped out of her bedroom in that gray cashmere, hair mussed from her quick change, but now he absolutely aches with the want of her.

They get the hang of it, though not without fits and starts and redoubled efforts. They are more careful with buttons and flies, with tugging off clothing slowly, but also more drunk with want as fingers dip into wet places and palms cup hard and silky ones. They try to go slow, but some dam has broken and the water of lust is crashing all around them, drowning them, sucking them into and against each other. Scully mounts him right there on her couch, too frenzied to wait for a romantic repose on the bed. She is buzzed on the feel of his mouth on her breasts, his fingers inside her, the sound of his groans as she strokes him. “Now, now, now, “ she says as she climbs onto his lap, rubbing her center along the silksteel of his cock. His hands are bruising her hips and he’s not sure if he’s trying to bring her closer or hold her off. But Dana Scully is a woman who knows what she wants, and she grips his forearms, pushes them down, lowers herself onto him.

“Ah, fuck,” he says, and he’s almost coming already. He shifts forward, but this hurts her leg and she has to rearrange.

“Mulder, nguh—oh there,” And then she is riding him and it is sloppy and imprecise and the room smells of cooling pizza, but they can’t possibly care. Their mouths meet in awkward bumps when they can reach each other, and then, just before she is ready, he groans and comes and she has to ride him for a moment too long for his comfort in order to find her own release, her fingers jammed against her clit. But it is still so, so good.

They fall lengthwise onto the couch and its pillows, Mulder pulling her to lay atop him. He feels her shoulders shaking and looks down to see the top of her head. He panics for a moment, then realizes she is laughing again. She kisses his chest over and over, little nips and licks and soft touches of her lips, before lifting her smiling face, her forearms propped against his pecs.

“It wasn’t perfect,” he says, a little sheepish.

She’s shaking her head. “No.”

“I can do better,” he assures her, and she’s laughing again, a sound so contagious and beautiful he can’t help himself from chuckling too, though he’s pretty sure she’s laughing at him.

“Mulder,” she says after a moment. “Do you know how much I love you?”

The words shock him at first. He studies her face, still smiling, and he realizes the laughter in her eyes is really love, is really a fierce and urgent devotion. He is bowled over by it. He drinks it in. He rests one hand at the dip of her spine, and the other comes up to brush the sex-wild hair from her face. “How much?” he asks.

Instead of answering, she lurches forward quickly to kiss his lips, then sinks back against his chest, hair tickling the underside of his chin. “So much,” she says after a moment. “It  _was_  perfect, Mulder. It was exactly just right.”

His arms enfold her again, give her one tight squeeze, and he whispers into her hair, “I love you too.”


End file.
